


Marked Private

by rispacooper



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, The Mentalist
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, M/M, Public Sex, Skirts, Substitution, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crossover for the sake of smut and angst and hot, pretty boysinskirts! Undercover in a gay club and sex against a wall clichés. Crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked Private

Jane chooses to observe from as close to the center of the room as possible, perched on a barstool though he has no interest in alcohol. That fact isolates him even more from those around him, but he lets himself be jostled by the thirsty crowd at the bar, and be studied as he studies them, for the moment comfortable with being no one special. The speculation in their eyes is harmless, impersonal, even somewhat flattering, but the lighting is dim and multi-hued, and he’s just one figure among the thousand in this place, alone but content, despite all the noise.

There’s the music in the club of course, a shade too loud or perhaps he’s too old, the conversations around him—conversations only in the politest stretch of the term—shouted drink orders and the stream of different voices in his head.

The earpiece is more of an annoyance than a help, and despite Lisbon’s orders to remain in contact, he would have removed his long ago if not for the odd flickers of amusement as he listens to his colleagues maneuver through the club scene.

A scene rendered even more chaotic than usual by the fact that Sacramento was celebrating Gay Pride this particular weekend and the popular club where their drug-dealing, drug-using, bait for a much bigger fish suspect liked to spend his nights is now filled to capacity—or most likely beyond it—and it wasn’t even eleven.

They have been here for no longer than two hours and Rigsby’s barely-controlled heterosexual panic is evident in every breathless question transmitted through the tiny speaker in Jane’s ear. Grace is hardly at ease either. Lisbon is—as he’d expected—calm as she gives orders, and maybe that explains why Cho’s is the one voice not buzzing in Jane’s ear.

~~~~~~

Perhaps with this exact situation in mind, there had been a silence at the briefing once their plan of action had been decided. They would infiltrate the club and quietly extract Marco Aurelio, a sorry little drug pusher, but the younger brother of someone Lisbon badly wanted in custody.

“But it’s Pride weekend.” Rigsby had inserted, “You know… _Gay_ …Pride,” drawing all their eyes by choosing to unnecessarily whisper one little word. A room full of expectant, impassive cop faces had turned to him, and the pressure of the resulting silence had had him blushing.

Then Cho’s mouth had quirked up, into his carefully amused smile. Jane had felt his do the same.

“Something you want to tell us, Rigsby?” Cho had made a noise, a soft grunt, his expression as serious as it had been light a moment before. A small sound had come from Grace, in possible protest, her face no doubt as red as Rigsby’s as the other man had glanced over to Lisbon and then to Jane, wanting backup and finding none.

Cho had had his arms crossed, sleeves rolled up in preparation for a difficult job, but had leaned back in his chair. He could have been angry, or disgusted, or amused. Rigsby—and most others—wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. But there were clues.

Everything on Cho’s desk was out in the open, but in its place. It has always made Jane suspect that the difference between Cho at work and Cho in private would be slight, but significant. Settings may change, but how he works will be how he plays. Serious. A hundred percent committed, as open in private as he is closed off here.

It would be a sight worth seeing, he had reflected, the thought familiar.

“What? I…no! Not that there’s anything wrong with…”

“Being _gay_?” Jane had wondered, whispering the word as well, and had caught a glimpse of more wry amusement in Cho’s even expression before he’d turned back to his target—to Rigsby.

Jane had fought his widening smile and had let the soft word linger before finally shrugging. Someone should have taken pity on the poor man. Traditional American values and ideals of masculinity were written all over Rigsby, implanted and embedded in his earliest memories.

He’d patted Rigsby’s hand where it had rested on his desk, and then, when he’d felt all eyes on him, had let that linger too, until Cho and Lisbon’s eyebrows had gone up and Rigsby had jerked it back and out of reach. Jane had shrugged again for their benefit and made his voice consoling. He hid his own mirth until the last possible moment.

“If you’re worried about fitting in, I wouldn’t. They are going to _love_ you.”

Lisbon had smiled widely at Rigsby’s stiff, wide-eyed alarm and then attempted to look stern. But the real reward had been to hear the short laugh that Cho had let slip.

~~~~~~

His prediction about Rigsby’s popularity had not been wrong, though Jane had insisted on a quick makeover for the man. Wayne’s large form had been swept into the masses on the dance floor upon arrival, though Jane could see him from time to time, a dancing fool in a see-through sleeveless shirt, enjoying himself whether he admitted it or not.

Van Pelt is upstairs on the second floor, also quickly swept up into a larger group, just as easily pressured into joining the dominant group in spite of any discomfort. Lisbon is somewhere nearer the door, a steady stream of compliments and pick ups aimed at her reaching Jane through the filter of the transmitter in his ear. His team—Lisbon’s team—is on the whole rather beautiful, he notes, not for the first time, and then seeks out Cho with his gaze, a quiet presence in both the chaos of his mind and the chaos of a gay club reveling in its freedom.

Cho is at a single high table by one wall, his head up, an untouched drink in front of him. He had met not a few stares in the previous two hours, and rejected each silent offer with a discreet shake of his head, as unruffled by other men’s advances as he is by anything else, despite every preposterous media-fueled notion of police and military men.

Jane is not surprised, but he lets himself get distracted from the tedious job of searching for a petty criminal by keeping his eyes on the other man.

Jane is not fascinated by Cho. He likes the man, likes him as one of the few people aside from Lisbon who don’t pry or make a fuss about what really are simple, obvious observations. Whether Jane is correct or not, Cho’s response, or lack of response, remains the same. He is constant, level, because of that Jane feels no pressure to speak in his presence, feels nothing but calm. He knows, unless he indicates that he is willing, Cho will never ask him for anything.

Some time ago, Jane had decided to return the favor, contenting himself with guessing, idly speculating in moments of boredom, watching through half-closed eyes as Cho completes paperwork and makes calls, runs a tired hand through his short hair.

Cho had changed from his work suit into a tight black t-shirt with no prompting. It’s close-fitting, his stomach and chest clearly outlined under the suit jacket that conceals his badge and gun.

He didn’t have the look of many of the more colorful, scantily-clad men around them, but if Jane hadn’t known him, if they had been strangers here, he would have taken Cho as a club regular at first glance.

Not at a second, for his bearing and manner all read ‘Police’ to a trained eye; Cho keeps his back to the wall and one hand out of sight, and his eyes don’t rest as he looks for anyone who fit the description of Aurelio—tall, lean, flamboyant. Cho is, as he always seems to be, focused on the task at hand, and no amount of leaning in close, or provocative clothing, or comments is going to affect him.

Like Lisbon, he attempts to keeps work and self separate. Unlike Lisbon, he rarely offers anyone a glimpse of his life outside the CBI. He does not hide, he merely does not mention, and Jane sometimes wonders if he would answer a direct question, should Jane ever decide on the right one to ask him.

“Any luck?” It’s Lisbon’s turn to speak. The remark is directed at Jane, though he hasn’t seen anyone of interest. He shakes his head, watches Cho turn his head to meet his gaze as though Cho had known his location all this time, remembers he has to speak.

“They’re _all_ tall and lean.” Rigsby beats him to the punch, flustered—or aroused—from his high pitch and breathless whine.

“Except for the bears.” Cho is amused again, lightly, as much as he allows. Jane is pleasantly surprised by his own smile.

“The _what_?” Rigsby’s pitch gets dangerously higher. The situation _is_ humorous, more so when Lisbon explains with a sigh and tells them all to keep looking. Jane has a vaguely unsettling urge to laugh, but only lets his smile widen. Cho’s attention flicks back to him, and Jane shakes his head, lowering his gaze, already moving away.

No longer alone, he slips to the side, finds a new location not far from the first, sharing his smile with those who might resent him for taking their place at the bar. He feels himself being scrutinized, not unfavorably, and alters his smile to one of polite distance. There’s a sliver of heat down his spine, at the weight of so many stares, or this place.

He saves his interest for Cho and sits close enough to a speaker to feel the pounding drums inside his chest, uncomfortable. His heart feels kicked, shocked back into a different beat.

Jane had expected the competence, the professionalism, but not the experience.

That Cho knows the language of the scene isn’t wholly unusual, Jane analyzes as he breathes out, not for a cop who’s been around, but it’s not something Cho has previously shared. Cho is blunt, direct, and forceful in all things, subtle only when it suits him, with his own emotions, or those of someone he feels for.

The music is grating, a facsimile of tribal, or primal, but with too many synthesizers. It’s appropriate for the place and time, for brief physical liaisons, but little else. But through the harsh waves of remixed sound he can hear Cho’s soft exclamation.

“Hold on.”

Jane looks at the order, finds Cho’s potential target instantly. He’s returning from the bar, his back to Jane, a glass in one hand. The body is tall, lean, attired in an intriguing combination of fantasy and gender-bending provocateur. Jane takes in the fedora covering sleek, short hair and the sleeveless shirt revealing muscled arms. But his attention lingers—as it is meant to—on the stiff, folded white wings on his back, the wide glittering cuff bracelets on each wrist, and the short red and black plaid skirt that does not even attempt to cover the bare legs. The Converse and high socks are an interesting touch.

“It’s not him,” he responds as the slender man moves past Cho’s table. Cho reaches out, silent and quick, and the man turns. His bare shoulders gleam in the changing light, golden with good health. “He’s not your dealer,” Jane repeats, frowning insistently if only to himself.

Cho’s face is bland as he holds up a sticker in two fingers, offers it like it’s a business card.

“It was stuck to your skirt,” he adds, evenly, as though he encounters men in skirts every day.

“The man is healthy, fit. The shoes, the hat, he has _style_. Everything about our dealer says he’s small time, a tweaked out wannabe.” Jane breathes out, hard and impatient.

In profile, Cho’s target looks too pretty to be handsome and Jane moves again, staring. The man is in his early thirties, a professional of some kind, with a job that requires a respectability that he’s breaking free of tonight. He has light hair, almost blond, dark eyelashes and a full mouth. Freckled skin with no signs of drug use. His eyebrows are drawn together in an affectation of doubt, but there’s a slight smile at his lips at the same time. He’s a creature of whimsy until his gaze sweeps over Cho.

“Thanks. I’d hate to have everyone staring at my ass all night.” That earns him an amused snort from Cho, since obviously the point of the skirt is exactly that. Cho’s eyes drop to the skirt again, clearly with the same thought, and the man pats it, the gesture abruptly self-conscious. “A little taste of the old me,” he remarks with a raise of his glass, toasting a memory. His drink will be bitter, unsugared.

Cho’s gaze leaves him, flicks out toward the bar, where Jane’s former position has been taken over by a group of women. Then it’s back.

“Guys? Please? Do you see him?” Rigsby’s voice is ringing with desperation a long way away.

“What about the new you?” There’s no sign of innuendo on Cho’s face, but Jane feels his attention sharpen, tuning out the white noise of investigations and crowds of other lonely people.

He’s too far away to see pupil response, pulse points, but Cho’s head is up, his attitude interested though Jane has already told him to let the man go. Cho’s face is still carefully bland, as even as his voice. He is not in a suit, but he is at work.

“You don’t seem like you belong here.” That brings the man’s head up as well, his look momentarily evasive, and Jane has to agree. Despite the outfit, the man is just as much a stranger to this place as the rest of them.

“This isn’t exactly my scene anymore.” He makes a face, child-like. “This music _never_ was.” Then his gaze dips down, his head to one side so he can study Cho in return.

Cho’s expression only means anything in a place like this. Jane’s not certain that even he would have noticed it in any other context. His frown deepens, his body still. This is something Cho didn’t want him to know, but he doesn’t smile, and directs his attention to the winged man, the stranger that look had been for.

“But then why am I here?” The stranger asks Cho’s next question for him.

Jane knows why; the phrase “old me” reeks of well-meaning therapists. He watches the man take another drink, swallow liquor.

Cho’s type, Jane assesses, a cloud of thoughts and impressions already forming and he has no desire to shake them off this time, whatever his silent agreement for Cho’s privacy had been. It is altogether different from the few women that Cho had agreed were “attractive” in the time Jane had known him.

Cho’s type leans toward beautiful, unusual, classical and yet open. The man moves gracefully but with energy, and Jane glimpses his nose, which has been broken at least once, the hint of discolored skin at his neck, wonders if the outfit is to distract from them.

Damaged, he adds to his list, feeling the bass take over his heart; damaged but not broken. Resilient. Stronger than he looks.

“I’ll tell you why if you tell me why _you’re_ here, Officer,” he adds, taunts, and Cho’s eyebrow gives the smallest twitch.

“How?” He shifts back, his face no longer admitting anything, not that it had given away much. The blank mask lasts until the man laughs.

“I knew it,” he brags softly, then shakes his head. He’s not a cop, Jane decides critically, not with how he talks about the police, but he works with them. He respects them, but he is not and never will be one of them.

Bright, the cloud grows larger, solidifies. Not just smart but bright beyond intelligence or education. Someone exceptional. Cho reaches high, as he should. But Jane feels his smile drop, a frown tightening his forehead.

“You look like…” The man who is apparently what Cho wants swallows again, without liquor this time. “I work with the PD and you look like one—and by that I mean you look like a cop on duty.” Cho is always on duty, Jane wants to tell him, share knowledge that he possesses to this man who doesn’t, but the man pauses, looks around, and his expression briefly goes as impassive as Cho’s before intrigue replaces it. “Is there danger? Do you need assistance?”

Jane knows he’s many things, most of them less than honest, many less than honorable, but he’s rarely blind, or truly mistaken. And he’s not blind now, though he feels stiff, slow, too hot and then cold. Deafened. From where he is now he can see enough, and though he has no care for fashion anymore, hasn’t ever sought out places like this, he sees himself in the stranger leaning against Cho’s table.

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to be close enough to the minute changes of meaning in Cho’s eyes as he stares back.

“It’s ‘Agent’,” Cho corrects, only a slight sigh indicating any irritation or reluctant amusement. “And you should be fine if you stay here.”

“With you?” The question is teasing, nearly drowned out by Lisbon’s voice, authoritative and urgent.

“Cho. Rigsby. Van Pelt. The entrance, now. Jane…”

“I’ll stay back,” Jane answers her unspoken order, with no more desire to encounter danger than Cho’s pick up, hanging back as Cho gets to his feet and puts one hand on the man’s bare shoulder, silently promising safety as the man is also ordered to stay away.

Then Cho is slipping through the hungry crowd, trying to get out.

~~~~~~

Outside the hot pressure of too many bodies, the night air is shockingly cool. Jane’s skin feels newly washed, his face raw from a razor though he hasn’t shaved since that morning. The neon club sign and streetlights don’t leave him any shadows and the crowd is distant.

He can still stand and observe, watch Lisbon conferring with a local officer, see their bait, cuffed and freaking out in the back of a regular squad car. The man wanted to feel important, just as Jane had told Lisbon, as important as his older brother, so Lisbon had struck a deal; Aurelio stays overnight in a city jail awaiting possession charges and then the CBI would swoop in just before his arraignment—black suits, sirens, as official as they could make it—and take him to the Statehouse for questioning.

“He should be hurting for a fix by then,” Cho had echoed Jane’s thought only moments before, a trace of ruthlessness in the statement if not in his voice, and Jane should have smiled as he’d been meant to.

Cho had not been out of breath from his dash outside, but then, in spite of the call for help, Lisbon had had Aurelio on the ground by the time they had all emerged from the “Sexie Club”.

Jane is the one with a tightness in his chest, a strange frown on his face that Cho had obviously noted, if not questioned.

He’s with Rigsby and Van Pelt now, some distance away. Grace looks lovely, somewhat relaxed by watching what is doubtless Cho continuing to give Rigsby a hard time about his popularity here.

Cho’s questions will be pointed, but not campy or hateful. His knowledge alone is enough to turn Rigsby’s face red—redder—make him glance significantly more than once in Grace’s direction.

He has nothing to be ashamed of. Life and experience have taught Jane that sexuality is flexible and often inconstant, relative to situations. That Rigsby is flustered because a part of him liked the attention, still likes it a little, even outside the club. The watching crowd, smoking, waiting to get in, wolf-whistle at him, sensing his discomfort, and Cho gives a rare, full grin, inappropriately amused and looking for someone to share the feeling.

Jane doesn’t move.

“I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?” Lisbon’s steps are soft, but audible. Jane starts anyway. “He’s had quite a shock.” Lisbon angles a curious look his way and Jane tries a vague smile, knows it veers toward wicked when Lisbon lets her eyebrows go up archly.

“He is…surprised…” Jane keeps his voice low. “He liked it.” Lisbon snorts.

“Upset you mean. He’ll get over it. This won’t be the only time he’s going to have to learn to accept different lifestyles.”

“Oh he harbors no ill will.” Jane tosses his head, the words louder than he means them to be. “He simply didn’t expect…” Perhaps Lisbon is too used to sentences from Jane that are never finished. She rocks back on her heels and doesn’t press. The sensation of deliberately being given his space is familiar, irritating. He is not weak, or broken.

“We have an early morning. You coming back with us?” The question is strange when he had arrived with them, in one of two cars. Jane looks over again, sees Rigsby escorting Grace toward the parking lot, sees Cho head in another direction, alone. He flashes his ID to get back inside.

Jane looks to Lisbon, who must know about Cho, and will assume that he does as well, that he already knew. Why shouldn’t she; Jane has had every opportunity to study Cho, as she has.

He wonders how much she knows. She will respect the lines Cho had built to divide this from that, and she’ll warn him to do the same, if he pries. The assumption that he will pry makes him scrub at his face, clench his hands before he smoothes them down his sides.

“Boring,” he comments, staring at the empty space in front of him. “I’ll walk.”

“Jane…”

“What trouble could I possibly get into?” He directs a controlled, though warm, smile at her, his head to one side, teasing, because he knows they both know it will work on her, even against her better judgment.

“I don’t even want to imagine.” She gives in, as predictably as she should, in a way that doesn’t unsettle him, or raise any questions about his ability to do what he does.

But when he moves she places one small hand on his arm, the gesture protective, as though Jane will run toward danger after all.

~~~~~~

He has tried to picture Cho like this of course, bold, direct, strong. Imagined him naked, seen him as forceful without being rough. It can be useful, sometimes, to imagine someone else as a lover, as a distraction or a tool to better understand them.

He has never imagined Cho with a man. Another man.

He is not used to failure, does not like such _obvious_ failure. He feels as he did when his sight returned to him, too much stimulus for him to focus on one simple thing.

His heart rate picks up as he returns to the club, sounds washing over him. The earpieces are long gone; he will have to be careful if he wants to get close enough to hear. But he knows where his target is headed. His suit is too tight, ill-fitting. His throat is parched. He gets a Perrier at the bar, lets the bubbles clear his mind, ease his thirst, as his gaze falls back on Cho, who is at his table, standing beside it, letting the other man take his seat.

It isn’t surprising that he had waited for Cho to return, had not taken flight, though he’s chosen wings. He’s a man who only attempts to look frivolous and carefree. Jane can read him like a book he knows too well.

Jane leaves his bottle at the bar, slides his coat from his shoulders and carries it over one arm. He ducks his head and moves, as invisible as a pickpocket, takes up a position at another table. Then he stands to the side, not safe even with Cho’s back to him.

“That didn’t take too long.” The man has tilted his fedora forward. His glass is empty, his manner tipsy, but genuinely charming. Perhaps it’s the way his boldness is an obvious attempt to hide nerves.

His voice trembles, as does his hand on the slick edge of his glass. “You don’t have to go back?” He waves his other hand, jittery, meaning anything police work-related, Jane supposes.

“Did you just _grunt_ at me?” he wonders a moment later, in disbelief at Cho’s response, but the familiar noise makes Jane’s spirits lift as well. Something in Cho’s face that Jane cannot see makes the man grin. “That a Sacramento thing? Or just my luck to like big, buff, uncommunicative types?” He drains the ice water from his glass like he wants another drink.

In love with someone else, Jane adds to his list. Someone he doesn’t have. Someone incredibly foolish. Cho is no fool.

“I can talk when it’s important.” He still can’t see Cho’s face, can’t risk it, and has to judge from the other man’s reaction if the spark of humor is in Cho’s eyes, what it means. “Do you want another drink…?”

“Greg.” Greg pauses, then shakes his head. He looks up through his eyelashes, shy or flirtatious, or both. He is, Jane acknowledges objectively, mouth dry once again, quite lovely. Sparkling and bright and brave, for all the fragility of his costume. “Greg Sanders.”

“Kimball Cho.” They both choose last names, even here. That should not hurt, shouldn’t be more than a twinge. It’s surprise, nothing else.

“You’re not from around here.” It isn’t a question. Kimball Cho doesn’t make small talk. He likes discipline, but dislikes unnecessary rules as he dislikes deception. “And this isn’t your scene anymore.” He asks only what he wants to know, when he wants to know it. “So what are you doing here, Greg Sanders?”

Jane’s head goes back, a line between his eyes. But he keeps his gaze steady on Greg, fixing on the one point he has to guide him. Cho’s back is still to him.

Greg makes a brief grimace, waves a hand at himself, his clothes, before bringing it back to his glass. “Visiting a friend…” he starts, stops, starts again. “Getting away from work for a few days…”

“Looking for escape,” Cho finishes for him and Greg gives him another look from beneath his lashes. This one is wary, considering.

“You sound like you know what I’m talking about.”

“I might.” Cho takes the glass from him. When he returns it, the chips of ice are gone. The display is arrogant but Greg grins. Jane narrows his eyes, begins to pay more attention to the part of their exchange that isn’t being said out loud. Their language is unfamiliar, but easy to follow.

“Because underneath that gruff exterior you’re just a big softie?” From under the brim of his hat, Greg’s eyes are trained on Cho. His intensity belies his playful tone. Cho leans forward, puts a hand over the one Greg has left on the table, then removes it when Greg’s eyes fall to it.

Basic seduction of any kind. Start with the smallest of touches. Jane does not look at Cho’s set shoulders, but Greg’s full mouth turns up just Jane feels himself staring, reluctantly admiring, smiling without true humor.

“Because those clothes are saying you came here looking for that.”

Jane’s smile falls from his face. Cho isn’t moving. Greg isn’t looking away, though _his_ grin stays in place. He is amused at his unusual seduction, and that is what it is, a seduction, albeit one without false words or flattery. He’s being mesmerized by honesty and a forthright gaze. Jane wonders if the old Greg would have been, or if he wouldn’t even have seen it, too wrapped up in his bright, busy, lie of a life.

“It’s an old get up. I felt ridiculous just putting on the skirt.” Greg jumps out of his seat, smoothes a hand over the plaid. All eyes follow the gesture, as they are meant to. He plays his part well, better than most, innocent enough in his anticipation because it’s real.

Jane moves, puts one hand flat to his table, but the metal doesn’t feel cool.

Greg has the strong, muscular legs of a runner. He hasn’t shaved them. It _should_ look ridiculous, but the contrast of male strength and the coy length of the skirt make him into something that has no proper place, a man who defies rules and divisions. It sparks a challenge, _he_ sparks a challenge, both animal and protective, possessive.

Jane goes still at the renewed heat of the small space where he has chosen to wait, to watch them, feels sweat in the length of his hair, too long once again.

Cho’s fingers trail through the last of the condensation on the glass. Jane’s hands mimic the gesture; he imagines the cold, knows it will have little effect on overheated skin. He hasn’t been drinking, but he is too warm, confused by the sounds around him. He focuses on others, forces his attention back.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

They are lovely together. Young. Hungry. Somewhere deep inside, Jane feels old, tired, weak with deprivation. But he _feels_ , swallows air. He’s too hot, even without his coat.

“…No.” There’s only a small pause.

“Well it looks good on you.” Cho is not grunting, deftly changing subjects back and forth with a minimum of words. His voice is level, but barely, and Jane opens his mouth to protest, needing to see his face, to get closer to hear more.

Greg licks his lips; Jane can feel his get dry.

“Yeah?” Greg actually seems uncertain, his confidence more shattered than it appears at first glance. He’s quiet. Cho steps in closer, and though Greg is taller, Greg tilts up his chin at the invasion of his space, doesn’t fight it.

“Yeah.” The music isn’t loud enough. Jane can almost hear it, can almost feel the breath warm on his mouth. He is unsurprised and taken aback all at once to witness this Cho, who is everything he had imagined. “I’d like you fuck you while you’re wearing it.”

~~~~~~

“You know, some things aren’t the business of even the great Patrick Jane.” Lisbon’s parting words echo through his mind, pound against his skull, looking for escape.

Jane sets his jaw and shoves them away, like dreams, like nightmares, waking visions of the dead that taunt him now for all his years of faking them.

It used to be only the nightmares that mattered, and the sick fear and hatred that came after, a loathing, burning red. Everything else was pale and distant.

Now there’s heat leaving him damp, sticky, song lyrics buzzing in his mind like all the strangers around him. He’s conscious of his dry mouth and lips, his thirst, the constriction of his shirt at his shoulders and how it holds him back.

His skin itches with sweat, so flushed with warmth that he’s sharply aware of every touch, all casual, bumping against him without intent. There will be no intent, unless he hints, turns.

He moves forward, through the crowd, and thinks of Lisbon, foolish Lisbon, as though Jane doesn’t already know the cost of looking where he shouldn’t.

~~~~~~

“Would it be too much to say right here, right now?” Greg had wondered without a moment’s pause, laughing in the face of the absurd, of life, and Cho had moved, quick, bold, staving off tragedy with one sure hand.

Jane had not smiled, not even to be right.

~~~~~~

They hit the wall in the space behind the stairs, emergency exist lights illuminating a brick wall painted with words and numbers, condom wrappers and drug paraphernalia on the ground.

There are speakers on the stairs themselves, deafening Jane when he isn’t peering around to carefully watch them. The music still reaches even this place, as do hints of cool air from outside, slipping in under the door.

It’s an ugly space, sordid, though it doesn’t seem so now.

They make it less ugly, he thinks, his breath stolen at the sight of twisting bodies, angling, pressing ever closer.

“I’m a criminalist,” Greg is explaining something, breathless as Jane comes upon them. It’s Greg who pushes Cho to the wall, in the corner besides the door, his hands land squarely on the broad shoulders and shove, sliding down when Cho grunts. He’s not gentle, but Cho is strong, can take it, and allows the wandering hands to trace his muscles, yank up his shirt.

“Shut up,” is Cho’s only response, in words, his tone almost amused. He eases his head back when Greg’s mouth finds his throat. Muscles there move as he swallows, masculine beauty in the simple gesture. Need is in the way he shivers as he holds still. Greg’s lips are soft, pink and shining wet. His fingers play delicately for a moment on almond-colored skin, and then they are pushing into it, reaching for more. He remains unusual in the green neon, his fedora knocked somewhere to the floor, his wings glowing.

He doesn’t kiss Cho’s neck, he _tastes_ it, darting out his tongue before sliding his lips over the carotid, up under Cho’s ear. There he sucks hard. Cho makes a noise in his throat, rough, a sound Jane has never heard from him before, audible above even the music, the other propositions being made in the background.

Jane can’t see Cho’s hands. They’re behind him, against the brick. It’s his body pushing forward, allowing himself to be touched by a man in a skirt, unexpectedly submissive in the face of his lover’s needs.

He is changed by the pale green light, his expression flickering like the fluttering of the pulse under Greg’s tongue.

He swallows, makes another rough, low sound, and Jane cannot feel the soft humming against his lips of words held back.

The wall Jane has chosen to hide behind is gray, black along the stairs. His palms are rough with the feel of it, as Cho’s will be, scraping against brick.

“More?” Greg asks, not his first question though the only one Jane hears, sliding them closer, his skirt rising and falling like a cheerleader. He’s taunting, a delicate tease, just what Cho wants judging from the glide of Cho’s hand through his light hair. His fingers curl, pulling Greg’s head up with confidence but no force. His other hand slides down, tangles in a handful of skirt. There’s bare skin, briefly exposed, and now it’s Greg who makes a noise in his throat, hiding his face in Cho’s shoulder, hissing out his words.

“Yes…please…” He agrees, choking, unspoken dialogue between them again, but Jane can read it now. This is more than a club encounter, with Cho leaning back with the same ease that he obeys even the most bizarre of Jane’s requests.

His skin shows color. His eyes lit, his lips parted. Jane should have expected this, pictured this as well, and he had, but never with another man.

His mouth moves at the first glide of Greg’s hands under Cho’s shirt, the simple, impatient way he pushes it up when it falls down.

They are breathing hard. Jane’s chest is tight, the very air burning through him. It’s in his blood as well, like inhaling smoke.

Cho’s hands run over the slender body in front of him and Greg bends, his mouth moving over each nipple now, sensitive flesh, darker for his attentions. He tastes them as well, wet, slow, and Cho begins to speak, saying his name, all he really knows about the man allowed to touch him.

Jane swallows, as if he had been drinking after all, something brown and bitter, Greg’s drink.

“Greg,” Cho bites the word, growls it, runs a touch through the blond hair again. The sound must rumble through his skin, his hot, smooth skin, a hum like Greg’s breathy exclamations when Cho’s fingers pry up his skirt. His teeth graze against raised skin, not a warning, but encouragement.

“Please.” Greg emits one shocked gasp and Jane was right again, Greg is no longer teasing but seeking out whatever skin he can find, direct as he splays his hands, sucking bruises with quiet, hungry sounds, letting his teeth scrape until smooth flesh will ache with it. Even a touch of air, of breath, will hurt for not being harder.

Cho’s hand disappears beneath the skirt, driving them both crazy with unknown intimacies. Jane turns, does not blink, but can only see motion and imagine blunt fingertips pressing in. He doesn’t know what it is to be filled, to want it, but Greg shows him, gasping, spreading his legs to push against Cho’s body, shuddering to have to remain still at what can only be the drive of fingers inside of him. Burning, dry, slow enough to drive him mad.

Cho will not press unless he hints, asks him to.

He would have to speak of it, say out loud that he is hollow, beg in a trembling, weak voice for something to make him forget.

It isn’t the same empty ache that brought them here, but for the moment their bodies don’t know the difference. His body does not.

Jane curls his hand into the wall, ducking back only when he must, when Cho’s eyes narrow and focus, when they are open at all.

His features are soft with them closed, arousal flushing his skin. In his mouth the sound of careful grunts and words suppressed, another man’s name.

“G.” Greg corrects immediately, “Call me G,” announcing clearly who Greg wishes Cho to be for the moment, and Jane isn’t imagining the twist to Cho’s mouth.

But under the skirt his hands move, from the back to the front, their bodies shifting, momentarily merging in the green shadows, and Jane can’t see what’s being done, only what it does to them.

Cho is direct in what he wants, Greg a lustful coquette. At only one touch he’s falling into Cho’s strength, moaning without shame or hesitation. His hands fly out, one on the brick, one tight to Cho, his head bent, his mouth open. He spreads his legs.

“Kimball,” he uses the first name, swears, both dirty and elegant. “Fuck.”

Cho’s hand, Jane knows, is on his cock. The other elsewhere, at his thigh, his hip, to steady him. Cho is strong, he takes Greg’s weight, the other leg rubbing against him as Greg moves, trying to match his movements.

Jane tries to picture the motions of that hand, careful, methodical, brutal in how slow Cho can be, will be, until he gets what he wants. His body twitches in response, and Jane gasps, silently. He shakes as he focuses this time, grasping at the gray wall.

Greg’s cock will be hard, slick with fluid, naked or close to it, he knows, under that skirt. Flushed. The image is…not unpleasant. He cannot help but think of himself. His own. What such a touch would mean, feel like. Shouldn’t, it’s another line to cross, a natural division, but one harder to push aside later when he sees those hands at work, watches them roll up white sleeves to reveal strong forearms.

He swallows, his mouth still wet, his body still dripping with sweat. He hears the sounds they make, feels the slight breezes from outside, does not look down. He knows his expression is frozen, startled, aroused.

Jane’s cock is pounding, rushing with blood but not fully rigid. He does not look down. He looks at Cho, watches him watch Greg gasp and groan for him, and knows he’s aroused as well. He does think of Cho’s cock, flying past marked boundaries and lines, ignoring all agreements. His body aches, disloyal but insistent, burning with old wounds. He thinks of skin, of sex, of love, things he doesn’t want and has no need for, not for years. His body, Cho and Greg, they all disagree, and he acknowledges the desire to touch them, to press closer and see a light in dark eyes, for him alone.

Greg bites his lip and jerks forward and the ruthless smile comes and goes on Cho’s face with no one to share it, understand it, but Jane knows it’s there, knows he would have seen it, smiled for it. But Greg doesn’t need to read Cho’s face, he has his body, and leans against it, fragile wings and demanding cock, his hands clutching now, handfuls of t-shirt, his lips parted to beg.

“Please.” Greg surrenders quickly, thick, wide bracelets sparkling green against the black of Cho’s shirt, his sleek hair. His body moves, his hips shifting in an obvious rhythm, deeper than any songs playing around them. His skirt is almost obscene now.

He slides his mouth restlessly over Cho’s skin, his throat, his jaw, back and forth, a needy echo of up and down, maddeningly repetitive, slow.

Cho’s grip will be tight, sure, straightforward. But he won’t grant release, not yet. He touches, asking, and Jane isn’t stupid, lets his hand caress the bare wall in front of him anyway.

Jane is not hard, but he could be, can’t do more than glance around him, look out for other observers, before Cho finally answers, letting go of a stiff cock only to pull that lean body flush against him. Greg wriggles down, the skirt tugging up, outlining a firm ass, a healthy erection.

Greg’s whimpers are exquisite, as muted as the slow, soft way he continues to thrust against Cho. Cho’s touch gentles, but his other hand remains firm, resting at Greg’s lower back. His touch will be hot, even through fabric.

He presses their mouth together, sharing breath for one moment before the kiss grows sharper, fierce. Greg whimpers once more, giving and weak, what Jane would have to be, in his place.

“Say it,” Cho orders, too breathless to be even, his gaze too intense for any public space, even this one.

“Fuck me.” Greg gives in to the fantasy they have created, pretending easier than Jane could have, when they’ve both known such pain.

~~~~~~

Such faith should be rewarded, though it rarely was in life. The idea is only one of a dozen distracted thoughts spinning before Jane’s eyes as he climbs the stairs, passes the upstairs bar and lounge, and flashes his CBI identification to the bouncer at the door marked ‘Private’.

With the right air of confidence, the manager is blind to his red face, sweat-soaked shirt, and no doubt dilated eyes. Jane remains authoritative, slightly friendly, though he has to clear his throat to speak at all. Then he changes his mind after making his request to add another—sparkling water.

They know the CBI had been there, have seen him, they will assume he’s there on their business. Jane can sell that idea without even trying, even while lost and aching. Because he _is_ someone special. He is exceptional, always has been.

“I need the security footage from all of the exits for the past hour, and a private room in which to view them….And a Perrier if you don’t mind.”

He’s by himself in the manager’s office with a TV and VCR in only a few minutes, a glass beside him.

Most of the outside noise muffled by thick walls and carpeting, further silenced by a whirring air conditioner that cools his prickling skin.

Jane can see his hands, unsteady, as they search through the tapes, finding what he needs.

He glances around once, from left to right, but there is no one with him. The manager’s tastes are easy to pick up, velvet and leopard print, twinks and party boys. There had been no speculation in his gaze. There’s nothing else to focus on now that he’s found himself in this space, the water is tasteless on his tongue, a chunk of footage recorded less than half an hour ago.

He can pause here, now, observe unseen with the ease of distance, technology. He could leave, seek out cooler, fresh air, walk away and never return. He does neither.

Trembling or not, his hand hits ‘Play’, lets the silence surround him. He does not need color, or sounds. They are mere distractions.

He is alone. He is not downstairs. But his pulse doesn’t slow, continues to echo the sound pumping from the stairs below.

~~~~~~

Cho turns them both in one quick move, gets Greg’s face to the wall. Greg does not object, it’s Jane with wide, staring eyes.

“Have something?” Cho wonders quietly, running his hands over the man back and hips, frisking him with an urgency that leaves Jane still. Greg pushes back, into Cho’s lap, a tease evens as he pulls a condom packet from under one bracelet, then whips a small packet of something else from the other one, brandishing them like a magician. Though his face is to the red brick, Jane can sense the smug, all-knowing smile.

Cho’s short grunts disguise his own smile, Jane knows, from the times he had attempted to dazzle him with his own magic, a foolish urge, painfully obvious now. Cho looks around, a man with sin on his mind, but still cautious, protective. It’s only for a moment, and then his attention is back upon Greg, Greg with his magic hands.

Cho growls his approval, daggers in the simple sound.

His hands fall down to tanned thighs, then slide up, caressing skin as he exposes it, inch by inch.

“Nic…” Greg swallows his word, bends his head, his back bowed too. The unspoken name hurts, stabs just as much as Cho’s betrayal, and Jane nearly shuts his eyes. Greg’s hands are on the wall, but spread wide, pleading, and Cho isn’t blind either, or deafened by synthesized sex and a bass line. They are in the corner now, between the exit and the brick wall, at enough of an angle for Jane to see their faces in profile.

Cho rips one packet, lets it fall a moment later, and then Greg’s head is back up, lovely in profile as he gasps. He is pushing in again. Jane lets his mind wander, imagine, dreams of pain and then sharp pleasure, a strong hand on his hip. He could take this, would not protest the discomfort that he deserves.

Cho would not think so, would not offer him any.

“Kimball…” he pushes out the name, pleased and tense, though Jane can only see hints of motion and sex, firm skin, pale next to Cho’s hand, the straight line of Cho’s back.

Cho is poised, inflexible for only a moment, then he lets out a small breath. In motion, Jane gets a glimpse of his jaw, slack as he breathes hard. When he shifts, Greg’s fingers curl. He presses closer to the wall, lets his eyes flutter closed.

Greg is not in heaven, but he is close, barely responsive to anything but the touch inside him. He will not be able to think, to focus, and does not want to.

Jane is alone by the stairs, but fixes his gaze on Cho, the straight line of him bending to his lover, so ready and still waiting. It is difficult to move, to remember with ecstasy reaching out for him.

Jane can remember it, and does, sharp and sudden, making him bend too, nearly in half at the abrupt slicing pain of passion, returning, washing over him like a flood. He can’t breathe, almost doesn’t want to as he leans into painted brick and hide his face.

He is not blushing, but he should be. He is…ashamed…for wanting this much, guilty for what he wants to ask. He can’t ask it. Will not.

“Come on,” is all Cho says to that, dismissive of any fear, any remaining agonies, and Jane opens his mouth, swallows his protest when Greg rocks again, slides his hips and makes a high, sweet noise, grateful.

It tangles in Jane’s throat as well and he releases it, knowing they are no longer in this place, this tacky, too loud club to be seen or heard. His body burns.

He can see Greg’s ass now, Cho’s hand, shifting green shadows, Greg’s wings shivering, unreal, and Cho moving again. Greg twists his neck, trying to look back, to plead.

This time Greg is flexing muscle, a bobbing Adam’s apple. “More!” His voice trembles, but it is with passion.

Cho has only begun to fill him, something Jane can only know as a burn in his stomach, a thread of want keeping him on his feet when his legs are beginning to shake. He widens his stance, keeps his head up with effort. The wall is all there is to support him.

Cho is strong; he rips the other packet and, almost, Jane looks away.

They have moved from work to intimacy. Jane has at least, can’t even blush to watch Cho roll the condom on. A private act that should be public; he finds it beautiful. Prosaic and practical, protective urges let out where it’s safe to show them. Erotic at the same time. His hands shake with anticipation, nerves that ought to be soothed, lover’s caresses denied him here.

He reaches out when he’s finished, holding tight to Greg’s hip as the second bit of foil falls to the dirty ground.

Sexuality, Jane has learned, is subjective and personal, driven by loneliness. Attraction is often perverse, love generally overruled by fear.

But Jane is hard as Cho pushes inside Greg and starts to fuck him.

He arches over the gold, exposed body, leans into him without crushing his wings. One hand is at Greg’s side, the other sliding to the flat belly, drawing his shirt up to touch more freely. He is claiming what’s his for this moment, in this place, primal as that music isn’t, and Greg lets him.

His hold is gentle, his thrusts steady. Greg arches up, speaks despite forgotten, half-meant orders to shut up. Cho lets him, dragging his mouth over Greg’s throat now, touching his chest. His thumb flicks across Greg’s nipples.

“No more ‘Agent’ now…” Greg’s joke is feverish, barely coherent, but startling. He is speaking the truth, too mad with passion to pretend. He knows more here than he allows, because, of a thousand bodies, Cho had chosen this one. Jane almost can’t bear to look at him.

Cho’s breath is fast as he answers, short grunts and commands, impatient. Greg’s hands fly out, though he isn’t going anywhere. A moment later they land, one falling back to squeeze Cho’s side, holding fast, asking for more.

“Kimball,” Greg’s voice breaks as he pushes back, his body straining when even the rough pace isn’t enough. It’s what he wants, enough to make him forget.

Jane is tense, tight, pushing toward them. He tries to focus, to observe, finds his mouth and throat dry, his gaze on the back of Cho’s neck. He memorizes the neat haircut, the shimmer of sweat, in place of what he cannot see.

Cho’s fingers are sliding, Greg’s skin slick as well. He grips tighter, harder, and Greg’s need is like an aftershock, sending tremors through Jane’s chest. He moves too, unwilling to look away.

He can’t see Cho’s face, but he could call to him, beg him to end it. They are gleaming, dripping, and Cho drags the skirt up, baring everything.

Jane’s mouth moves to echo Greg’s pleading, choked, high noises, but no sound emerges from his throat. He closes his hands into fists, stares at Greg until his eyes burn. Greg is spread out beneath Cho, open, filled. He is naked from the waist down, Cho’s hands surrounding him.

Cho ducks his head and Jane shuts his eyes at the short cry, the shuddering bodies.

He can’t…doesn’t want to see.

~~~~~~

There’s no color in the recording, no sound, but Jane is there again, his body and mind a spiraling ache that hurts even now, the sensation of falling new again. He is unfulfilled, trembling, alone.

He grabs the glass of water, his fingers slipping in the condensation. It makes his hands cold, and he shivers, the memories stark before his eyes.

~~~~~~

Cho slides to his knees after only minutes of deep, desperate breaths, his grip easing as Greg turns, and it’s more than desire that streaks through Jane to see his mouth close around Greg’s waiting cock.

He does not want Cho on his knees for this man.

The feeling is white-hot and scalding and it leaves him gasping, shaking.

It is not magic any longer, but plain black and white, as it should be. Bold and straightforward, Cho will make his lover come. Jane is right, Cho gives everything, even when it will hurt. This _will_ hurt, later, make the need so much worse.

His hands clutch at plaid Jane knows to be red and black, golden-green skin, holds them both firmly. Onscreen, Greg’s wings are being crushed to the wall, dirtied, real enough, but he shuts his eyes and arches up and reaches out, fingers in short, sleek black hair. He is attempting to soothe, even as his hands tighten with ecstasy.

Jane feels his mouth make the shape of the name with him.

“Kimball.”

~~~~~~

The face is still unknown to him, his thoughts still hidden, because Jane hadn’t known the right place to catch them. Hadn’t wanted to know, it’s much the same.

His fingers jab at the VCR, obviously trembling even to his gaze, his body flushed and tight, out of his control for a few more moments, but it allows him to hit ‘Pause’, to freeze the screen on one single moment in time.

They are lovely, Jane acknowledges, running a touch over the glass screen, the lean, strong form of Greg, allowing Cho to fall against him. He was captured as he strokes the broad shoulders gently, knowing more than he will ever say.

An envy as faintly green as neon lighting touches the cloud in Jane’s mind, but he does not push it away, deserving much more than that. They _were_ lovely, and such beauty was meant to be admired, perhaps more because of the pain behind it.

Cho was unexpectedly weak, unexpectedly to Jane and no one else, his eyes huge in the black and white, searching the shadows with intent. He was exhausted and flushed, weary for being so strong.

It will not stop him for long, but Jane will see him like this tomorrow when he looks upon him, watching with half-closed eyes as Cho does his job, protects everyone else, imagining first touches, countless seductions he will never enact.

Cho will know Jane is watching, but he won’t know why. Because he is Cho, he will not ask.

He is beautiful. Unique. Exceptional. Too much so for someone like Jane. Dishonest. Broken.

Jane should not—does not—want him.

Onscreen they are exchanging words, as he remembers, will spend the night together, elsewhere, where Jane cannot pry, separate in the morning or perhaps Sunday, but separate they will.

The ache will return in any case, as the three of them know, but for the moment, for _this_ moment, frozen, they are content.

 _There_. Jane hits ‘Play’ once more then pauses the tape again as Cho turns, his gaze exposed, answers there, if Jane asks for them. He won’t.

“Kimball?” Jane murmurs the name, a question whether he likes it or not. The sound is raw in his throat, his senses thrown by forgotten pangs of desire and need, the sickening burn of what he should not feel at all, what he does not feel. It’s the confusion of passion, physical needs pushed aside for too long. He cannot want this.

“There,” he says again, his voice working on its own, his mouth softening, when their gazes meet in the still image.

Cho is not looking at him, but he ejects the tape and stuffs it under his coat without a single guilty glance around. He swallows what’s left of his water, bubbles sparkling in the light of the TV.

He’s back in the crowd within moments, one of them, almost invisible as he leaves.

 

The End


End file.
